


All the Molly

by Mouse9



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-10
Updated: 2018-09-14
Packaged: 2019-07-10 11:23:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15948353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mouse9/pseuds/Mouse9
Summary: In honour of Molly Hooper Appreciation Week 2018, a collection of Molly related stories.





	1. First Contact

“Here, give me your hand.”

He felt her hand over his; cool, chapped, guiding it gently.

Her skin under his palm was soft, smooth almost silken under his touch.  He was worried as he gently stroked her skin, worried that his callused hands would hurt her, but she merely guided his hand to one part of her skin and pressed it there, her own hand covering his.

There was nothing but the feel of her skin under his palm and then…

Resistance.  A slight bump against his palm.  A movement under her skin pressing quickly against him. 

His eyes widened, and he pulled hand away from her skin, only for a moment.  It was soon back followed by his other, pressing carefully against her slightly rounded stomach, his eyes wide as he looked up and into her smiling gaze. 

“Did you feel?”  she asked quietly. 

A wondrous smile crossed his lips, the same that crossed when he figured out a particular piece of a puzzle or was shown something he hadn’t thought of. 

His gaze went back to her stomach, her shirt pulled up slightly so all he saw was skin, pale creamy with the hint of pink lines closer to her hips.  His hands slid over the expanse of her stomach trying the chase the elusive movement, wanting to feel it again under his palm, proof of life.

Molly laughed, taking his hands once more and pressing them against the side of her stomach.  With a light tap on the skin by her belly button, he felt the response under his palm again.  Another thump, pressing against his palm, quick and precise. 

“I think that was a foot this time.”  She told him.  He was silent for the longest time, not moving, merely holding his hands on her stomach, staring intently at her stomach.  She was about to say something when he spoke.

“I’ve been party to many a stupid thing in my life. Many a wondrous thing, dangerous, exciting, incomprehensible.  But this…this Molly Hooper, is indescribable.”  He looked up at her from where he sat, his hands not moving, a smile so bright it hurt her heart.

“Proof of life -your life, my life our life- inside you.  I never thought…”  he cleared his throat and once again she smiled, blinking tears from her eyes as her own hands covered his, letting him talk. 

“Thank you.”  He finished simply. 

She gave a confused frown.  “In case you forgot this part, you kind of helped.”  She teased lightly.  She expected a dry look from him.  The kind that said, _don’t make jokes Molly._   Instead, he leaned forward and pressed his lips against her stomach, then his forehead. 

“You saved me,” he said simply, his voice flowing over her stomach followed by a smile when an answering thump near his head responded to his voice.

It was her turn to clear her throat.  Her hand left his, to stroke his hair, sliding down behind his ear and to his neck, bending her neck down as far as she could go with the limitations of her now protruding stomach. She watched him with a quiet smile and all the love in her eyes.

“Always, always.”

 


	2. Scent of a Woman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 2: Smell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm just going to thank Ukthxbye for letting me shove these works at her with the frantic "What's wrong with this!"   
>  And for giving me ideas when I messaged her last Friday yelling "I only have three ideas for a seven day prompt fest!" This was one of her ideas. I expanded. Thank you for being my fic cheerleader.

There was an underlying scent to people who spent their lives in labs and Morgues working with the dead for a living.  It was the smell of death and formaldehyde. From classes and labs at medical school, it permeates clothing and eventually if done long enough, the skin of a person.  The hint of an almost sickly-sweet smell that lingers, even under the smell of alcohol and lemon and other cleaning products. 

Molly had gotten used to the smell, couldn’t even smell it anymore.  But she was always careful to keep a bottle of body spray or cologne in her bag in case of emergencies.  In her first year, a colleague had mentioned smelling it when she and several other pathologists were together in a meeting room.  The smell was in her skin, in her blood. It would seep out when she sweat.   There was no way to get rid of the scent, it was a part of her.

 

* * *

 

Tom hated it.  The hint of the disgusting sweet smell masked with the cherry vanilla body spray his Molly wore.  He bought her perfume, scents that smelled like lilacs and roses.  He’d tried woodsy scents when they became exclusive; sandalwood colognes and patchouli oil but the scent of patchouli in particular almost enhanced the sweet chemical smell and the first time she wore it, he had to leave a date early, feigning sickness. Soon after he threw away all of those perfumes replacing them with the more flowery scents.  If she ever noticed the change, she never said a thing to him. 

A little after they’d become engaged, she agreed to meet up with he and his friends at the local pub, running late for work.  He arrived on time and his mate James, smacked him on the arm as he handed him a pint.

“Where’s your ghoulfriend Tom?”  he joked. 

“Sod off, she’s a doctor which is more than I can say for you lot.”  He retorted, taking the drink.  Lucy, James’ girlfriend, looked up from a conversation she was having with one of the other girlfriends.

“Yeah, but she’d not the good sort of doctor.  Like the ones who make tons of money as consulting.  She works in the Morgue, Tom, which you must admit is creepy. Plus, she always sort of smells like chemicals.  Not a lot but just enough that you know it’s there.”

“Get your bird some perfume or something,” Dale, another mate pipped up.  “Something strong to block it out.  Lucy’s right, sometimes you can smell alcohol and cleanser on her.”

“You think I haven’t tried?”  Tom asked.  “I keep buying her all these perfumes but all she’ll wear is that bloody vanilla and cherry scent…”  he shot back.  

The cherry and vanilla scent he’d just been disparaging wafted in the air around him and he spun around quickly, ignoring the hooting of his friends as he tried to find her, his heart pounding. 

He caught sight of her ponytail right before it disappeared from sight.

He got a text a bit later saying she didn’t feel well and was going home instead.

Three days later, when he saw her again, he could smell the scent of rose perfume on her. 

* * *

 

 

“Why do you smell like roses?  It’s cloying, interferes with the normal smells of the lab.”

It was the first week after Sherlock’s return.  His privileges had been reinstated and he was back to taking over her lab.

She looked at him, first shocked that he noticed the perfume and second, it’d been so long that she’d worn this particular brand that she’d forgotten that it didn’t use to be her preferred scent.

He didn’t look up, merely writing things in his notebook as he spoke. 

“I remember the smell of cherries and vanilla both of which are clean scents and combined with the lab effortlessly.  This however, clashes.  Stop wearing it.”

Her brows furrowed.  “What am I supposed to wear instead, Sherlock?”

Blue eyes flicked up to her before returning to the notebook.  “Why should you need to wear anything?  If you must, wear the scent you used to wear.”

His words brought out a smile, because she honestly didn’t think he’d ever noticed …anything about her if he wasn’t trying to prove a point or deflect.

Two days after that interaction, Tom came by her flat with the full intention of dinner and staying the night and was immediately greeted by the scent of cherries and vanilla.

She told him it was because someone had complained about the smell being too strong in the lab. 

 

It was the beginning of the end.

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock loved it.  The scent of cherries and vanilla always reminded him of her, it had gotten him out of many a depressing time, hunkered down in an abandoned building or run-down barn, hiding out from people as he moved from country to country taking down Moriarty’s web strand by strand over those two years.  The smell reminded him of home, of London, of safety. 

So, when he finally returned and so many things had changed; John, his city, he’d been off balance when Molly had also changed.  Engaged and now this new perfume.  She wasn’t supposed to change, she was supposed to be his cornerstone, steady, unchanging.  The smell of roses, while it was cloying and an unbalance in the lab, wasn’t why he’d said anything that day.  He just couldn’t bear to not have that security anymore.  Not when he still felt as if he were floating some days.

 

She started wearing it again and life went back to usual.  Soon after the Watson’s wedding, Molly had broken up with her fiancé and everything was right once more in the world.

* * *

 

As he stood in Culverton Smith’s favorite room, the smell of death and formaldehyde and bleach overpowering almost to the point of rancid, even in his drugged-up state, he felt comforted.  Wrapped himself up in the scent, used it as his shield as he did what needed to be done, used it as a blanket as his best friend kicked him again and again, until he heard ribs crack, used it as a light as Smith’s hands was over his mouth and nose, cutting the oxygen from his body, his brain.  The smell of death on the man’s hands so strong that he felt as if he were coming home.

 

The smell of cherries and vanilla with that faint hint of death greeted him after a twelve-hour sleep. 

Molly was there, in his room at the hospital, John had insisted on a transfer to Bart’s after Smith’s arrest.

She said nothing, merely looking him over with a practiced physician’s eye, her lips pressed tight they were almost bloodless.

 “Was it worth it?”  was all she asked.  He said nothing, merely pulled her wrist to his face with his free hand and inhaling.

 

* * *

 

 

There was a scent to Molly, it had been there since the day she first stepped into a lab in Medical school.

Sixty years later, the faint smell of death and formaldehyde was still in her skin.  These days the vanilla and cherries were replaced with the smell of honey and honeysuckle from Sherlock's apiary in Sussex where they’d retired.

Each day she would wash her hands after a day with the bees and each day he would still bring her wrist to his face and inhale.

It was a scent that was uniquely Molly.  It was a scent that was uniquely home.

 


	3. The Song

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day Three- Sound

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story uses lyrics from Jim Croce's classic song "Time in A Bottle" 
> 
> I'll admit, I sang this song to my youngest when they were a baby and it's lyrics are perfect. Plus, the time frame works.   
>  The song titles are in italics and are in no way affiliated with me, I am not clever enough to come up with lyrics like these. 
> 
> Below is a link to the song if you want to hear it.   
> https://youtu.be/dO1rMeYnOmM

Sherlock heard it again, late one evening.

He woke up, the sound of horrible off-key singing coming from the other room.

Molly Hooper was many things but a good singer she wasn’t.

It didn’t stop her, she sang everywhere; in the lab, usually when she was alone or with him, in the kitchen when she was cooking, unconsciously when she was reading over and editing her research papers before they went to publishing.

Usually he suffered through it, gritting his teeth as he tried to block her out.  Sometimes he called her out, asking her to tone down the pained warbling.   He didn’t do that often as it usually got him in trouble.

The only time he loved listening to her bad singing were on night like this, in the middle of the night when the world was quiet save for slight movements around the flat and Molly’s soft off-key singing.

He climbed out of bed, sliding on his dressing gown and padding down the hallway.  Molly was in the room down the hall bathed in the dim glow of the small lamp on the dresser.

She swayed back and forth with their child in her arms, softly singing to him.

 

_If I could make days last forever,_

_If words could make wishes come true,_

_I’d save every day like a treasure and then_

_Again, I would spend them with you._

 

He couldn’t help but smile.  He didn’t know the song, but she sang it every time Andrew woke up crying.  Their son seemed to love her singing, his blue eyes wide and staring up at her in wonder as she sang and swayed around the room.

He loved her even more like this, would happily stand in the doorway and listen to her for however long as she did this, all night if they had to.  There was a difference in this, he wasn’t sure what, but it probably had to do with her audience.

Molly rocked Andrew and did a little turn, her movements stopping when she spotted him leaning against the doorway.  She smiled as she continued rocking.

“Did I wake you?”  she asked quietly in a soft sing song voice.

“Not really.”  He admitted.  It wasn’t her singing, rather the empty side of the bed that woke him up.  Pushing away from the door frame he walked into the room.  “Why didn’t you wake me?”

In her arms, Andrew’s eyes were drooping closed, being lulled to sleep with the rocking.  Molly swayed unconsciously.

“You hardly get to sleep.  It wasn’t a big deal, I heard him fussing and figured I’d get to him before he fully woke.”  Her smiled widened.  “He has his daddy’s sleep schedule, it seems.”

“He’ll steady out sooner or later.  Even I had a basic sleep schedule when I was a child.  At least that’s what Mummy said.  I’ve heard you sing that song before, where did you hear it?”

Andrew was asleep now, his mouth making soft sucking noises.  Carefully, Molly turned back to the crib, gently placing the baby down, making sure he was tucked in properly.

“My Da used to sing it to me when I was a baby and a child.  Whenever I was sick or had a nightmare, he was there, singing until I fell asleep.”  She shrugged.  “It just seemed right.”

He wrapped an arm around her, looking down with her at their sleeping son.

“I love hearing you sing to him.”  He admitted.

She laughed softly.  “You hate my singing.”

“Not when you’re singing to our son,” he said.  “Then you sound like an angel.”

Her eyes softened, her hands sliding around the arm around her waist.

“You’re soppy but I appreciate it.  Let’s go to bed.”

Taking her hand, he led her out of the bedroom, closing the door to a crack as they both stepped into the hallway.

They managed three steps before the now familiar cry of their son could be heard behind the door.  Molly sighed heavily and made to turn back, but Sherlock placed a hand on her shoulder. 

“Let me.”  he said.  “Go back to bed and I’ll take care of him.”

She frowned.  “Are you sure?”

The look he gave her was one she hadn’t seen in awhile. The look that said _don’t be absurd._  “I’m quite sure I can soothe a crying child Molly Holmes.  Get some rest.”

She watched him turn back and enter Andrew’s room, his voice low as he spoke to the infant.  Wearily she trudged to the bedroom, climbing into bed and turning up the monitor just in case he needed help.

 

_If I could save time in a bottle, the first thing that I’d like to do_

 

It was her song, lovingly sung in his deep baritone voice, achingly perfect.  Tears came to her eyes; her son, her own child, would have his father sing this song to him. As her father had her.  That Sherlock had memorized the song just from her warbled variation and probably his mobile, just so he could sing it to Andrew because that’s what her father did…

It was too much.  Her heart burst with love for this man.  This person who would do something so small that meant so much.  

 

Smiling, she laid down and fell asleep to the soothing sound of her husband singing to their child to sleep.


	4. Same Time Next Week

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 4- Taste
> 
> There's a standing appointment between Holmes the elder, his PA and a certain pathologist.

There was a standing appointment. 

Every Wednesday afternoon from 1500 to 1545 at a small back office room of the Diogenes’ Club.

For the past four years, three people met, entering in from a small unassuming side door at the men’s club that held one assistant at that entrance for that day and time frame only to allow access and escort them out at the end.

It began as a way to keep a promise, to check in on Molly Hooper during the time of  Sherlock’s “death”  To make arrangements to have her meet here so Mycroft Holmes could both work while keeping tabs on the one person Moriarty overlooked and in that respect, the one person who’d been able to assist them.  In other words, a chore. 

Anthea was already allowed in this room, the only woman currently who had access to parts of this place for business only.  Yes, he knew it was antiquated and sexist and anything else Anthea mentioned on the list, but it was old and as long as it was kept in a “need to know” category, he certainly wasn’t going to go through the trouble of changing it.

The first visit, he had the advantage of surprise and being at a place that catered to him.  Molly was duly nervous and overwhelmed, which he appreciated.  The second visit, she was less intimidated and more curious.  The third visit, she brought jam tarts. Surprised he at first declined the offer.  Anthea, the traitor did not, picking up two of the small pastries and biting into on. 

“Oh my, these are delicious.  Miss Hooper, you are a culinary genius.” The PA gushed, popping the rest of it into her mouth.  “If you ever decide to quit your career for a change, might I suggest a pastry shoppe?  I will personally bankroll your endeavor.”

Molly chuckled.  “It’s really just a hobby.”

She eyed Mycroft mischievously.  “Mr. Holmes, you really need to try just one.”  Her tone suggested that she wasn’t going to take no for an answer. 

Rolling his eyes, he leaned forwards and picked up one of the smaller ones, figuring that if he cut back on his dinner tonight and did an extra hour on the elliptical tonight, he could work it off.

Taking a small bite, he damn near moaned when the tart taste of lemon exploded on his tongue.  The jam looked to be strawberry, he hadn’t expected the taste of lemon.  The texture was light and flaky, melting on the tongue and allowing the tartness to linger.  Anthea was right, the woman had a talent. 

Finishing off the first, he quickly reached for a second, ignoring the woman’s knowing smirk.

“Miss Hooper, my PA is correct, these truly are delicious.”

Thus began the fall of Mycroft Holmes.

 

* * *

 

Even after Sherlock returned to the land of the living, the weekly meetings continued.  Molly still came, escorted by Anthea, usually discussing antiquated male laws or the latest gossip happening in the hospital.  She still brought pastries that she baked on her off days to the meeting.  After a few adjustments to his schedule, he was able to partake in the weekly treats provided he put himself on a very strict dietary regimen the day before an the day after these meetings.

No matter what was happening in the world, this weekly meeting with his brother’s pathologist was the one constant thing in his life, outside Anthea.  Not that he would tell anyone, but it was also the one thing he looked forward to on a weekly basis. 

So much so that the Wednesday after the incident at Sherrinford and subsequently Musgrave, against Anthea’s strong concerns, he insisted the meeting take place as scheduled.

He eased himself into his chair at the club, sighing in relief at the familiar comfort of the soft leather.  Here was consistency, order, reason.  He could take a small comfort here. 

He heard the footsteps from the outside hallway, in one of the few places where talking was allowed, quiet, steady, the sound of two friends talking. 

“Still not letting women in here, huh?”

“Not as of yet, no.”

“You know, one day I’m just going to walk through those double doors, walk up to the desk and announce that I’m here for my weekly appointment with Mr. Holmes the elder, just to see what would happen.”

The deep throaty chuckle of his PA followed that statement.  “Do let me know when you decide to do that.  You’ll need to learn the sign language for “I’m here to see Mr. Holmes for my weekly meeting you ancient dinosaurs.”

Miss Hooper’s light laughter followed that statement as the door to the room opened, and the two women stepped in. 

He watched her move across the room towards where he was.  She looked exhausted, worn out, pale.  But there was a lightness in her eyes he’d never seen before since he’d known her.  A lightness he deduced had been put there by his brother.  Ah, good, that meant his brother had spoken with her and hopefully everything had been worked out accordingly.

Molly hurried to him, placing a white box on the table that had already been set out for tea. 

“Mycroft, how are you feeling?”  she asked, peering at him as if he were a patient.  He found it wasn’t as annoying if she were the one to do it. 

“I am better.”   he begrudgingly admitted, casting a quick glance towards Anthea who stood by her chair watching him intently. 

“We could have postponed this meeting you know.”  Apparently satisfied, she turned and sat in her usual chair.  Only then did Anthea sit.

“And yet, you baked.”  He nodded towards the white box.

“I did. I went a little overboard, nervous energy and all that.”

She lifted the lid and he peered in.  Inside the pastry box were tiny jam tarts, fruit scones and chocolate pastries.  Beside her, Anthea practically cooed in excitement.

“I remembered the jam tarts were your favorite and after the week you had, well you all had, I made some.”  She smiled, glancing over at Anthea before looking back to him.  “Well, John got some too and Sherlock.  That’s why there aren’t as many chocolate pastries, he sort of made off with a lot of them.”

“Oh, so he was at your flat then?”  Anthea cleverly asked as she picked out a fruit scone.  He approved of her info mining ability.  Across from him, Molly blushed.  As good as a confirmation.

“For a little while.”  She admitted.  “With Baker Street being repaired, he doesn’t want to put out John by kipping on the couch and well…I have a spare room so it’s really no problem for him to…”

He watched in what would almost be considered amusement as Anthea’s smile grew and grew until Molly realized that wasn’t what the woman had asked and she’d just slipped up.

“Um…I mean…he helped a little, yes.”  Molly finished lamely.  Anthea kept her bright smile. 

“Oh, I’m sure he did.”  She teased lightly, agreeing with him. 

Allowing the hint of a smirk, Mycroft reached out and plucked two of the jam tarts from the box and bit into one. 

As the lemon flavour exploded on his taste buds once more, he thought he was going to have to talk to Mummy about potentially getting their grandmother’s ring out of the safe in the near future.  She was going to be so excited.

And if, by chance he inherited a sister in law who make delicious jam tarts, well, he was not one to complain. 

 


	5. Cherry Stems

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 5- Taste

“I call bollocks.”

“Shut up John, I want to see this.”

“You I can see.  Her, not so much.”

“Sexist much?”

 

It was a rare evening, one where there were no criminals, no evening shifts at the hospital, a baby sitter that wasn’t used for a case and the ability for four friends to sit at a quiet pub and talk.

Several pints in, John, had made a comment about one of the nurses they worked with claim that she was dexterous.  Mary jokingly called him a pig and confirmed his statement about the said nurses’ claims. 

“Define dexterous.”  Sherlock asked, still nursing his second pint.  Beside him, Molly quietly drank her drink and listened to the three of them.  John grinned.

“Says she can tie a cherry stem with her tongue.”  He said as if that was proof enough.  Sherlock frowned.  Mary took a sip of her own pint and shared a knowing look with Molly across the table. 

“What does tying a cherry stem with one’s tongue have to do with dexterity?”  he asked.

“Nothing,” Molly piped up.  He waved towards Molly as if she was his confirmation.  John waved a dismissive hand. 

“Without sounding like a pig-“

“Too late,” Mary laughed. 

“-the ability to tie a cherry stem only using one’s tongue, can you imagine what else they could do with that tongue?”  John continued, ignoring his wife for a moment.  Then a thought came to him.  “Hey Mar-“

“Nope.  Can’t do it.  Have a plethora of other abilities to rock your world in my bag, but handless cherry stem tying is not one of them.”

“Damn,” 

Laughing Mary poked his arm.  “I haven’t heard you complain yet.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and took another swallow of his drink.  “If you two could not have sex right here in the pub…” 

“It really isn’t that hard.”  Molly chirped up.  “It only takes a little practice, anyone can do it.  I can do it.”

John stopped laughing.  The table went quiet.  Molly shrank back a little. 

John studied her for a moment before he snorted.

“I call bollocks.”  He announced.  Mary, whose smile had turned upwards into a mischievous grin, slapped her husband’s arm.

“Shut up John, I want to see this.”  She leaned forward resting her elbows onto the table.  John rolled his eyes. 

“You I can see.  Her, not so much.”  He pointed between her and Molly, who’d taken to finishing her drink. Mary gave him a look.

“Sexist much?”  She turned back to Molly.  “Come on, give us a show.  Shut the men up for once.”

“Might I remind you that I’ve said nothing regarding her supposed abilities.”  Sherlock interjected.  “So, don’t lump me in with the rest of the male population.”

“Hush, you’re just as bad.”  Mary’s grinned widened as she watched Molly who nursed her drink.  “Come on Molly, you can’t drop that on us and then not deliver.”

Molly glared at Mary, then at her own drink before heaving a sigh.  “Fine.”

Mary cheered as Molly waved down a server and asked for a mixed drink with several cherries in it.

“You don’t have to do this, you know.”  Sherlock said then grunted as Mary kicked his leg under the table. 

“Shut your gob Holmes.”    Molly grinned as she finished off her drink. 

“It’s fine.  I used to do it in Uni all the time.”

The server brought the drink and the requested cherries.

Molly picked up on of the cherries, biting it off the stem and chewing thoughtfully as she studied the stem and tried not to focus at the three pair of eyes watching her.   She took a sip of her new drink and popped the stem into her mouth. 

Moving the stem around in her mouth, she finally opened her mouth and stuck out her tongue, with the perfectly tied cherry stem laying on top of it.

“Fuck me.”  John said lowly as Mary clapped. 

“Well done you!”  she exclaimed as Molly plucking it off her tongue and laid it on the cocktail napkin beside her drink.  She grinned at the Watsons. 

“Need to see it again?”  John shook his head, blushing a bit.

“Nope…Nope, you win.  I…Christ Molly that was…that was…”

“That was bloody hot.”  Mary said laughing.  “I would love to see that again!”

“As would I.” 

She turned and let out a soft yip, seeing Sherlock focused on her.   “I didn’t quite see it all the first time, do it again.”

“Um…okay.”

Grinning widely, Mary picked up her pint, her gaze bouncing between the two of them. 

Picking up another cherry, she plucked the fruit off, putting it to the side this time and popped the stem into her mouth.  Another minute went by while she moved the stem inside her mouth and then stuck her tongue out again, this time rather proudly, the neatly tied stem resting there. 

Mary cheered again.    
“Where did you learn that?”  she asked, as Molly placed the second stem on the napkin and popped the fruit into her mouth.  She blushed. 

“An American television show back when I was a teen.  One of the characters did it and it fascinated me, so I tried it and discovered I could do it.”  she shrugged as she took another drink.  “Stopped doing it after a while because boys started asking what other talents I had.”

Mary’s grin hadn’t left her face since the beginning.  “What other talents do you have?”

“None!”  John suddenly said.  “None, Sorry guys.”  He put some money on the table and scooted Mary out of the booth.  “We’re calling it a night, have to get Mary home.”  Standing up, he grabbed his giggling wife’s hand and pulled her towards the exit.  “Have a good night!”

Molly just shook her head and downed the remainder of her drink.  Sherlock’s gaze followed them both out of the pub, a frown on his brow.    
“Where are they going?” he asked, innocent curiosity in his tone.  Molly gave a secret grin as she finished her drink.

“Probably home.”  She muttered. 

“That’s unconscionably rude,” Sherlock said.  He reached over her and picked up one of the cherries the server had left with them, picking off the cherry from the stem.  “We were in the middle of a conversation and they just leave.”  He popped it into his mouth.

Molly snorted softly.  “Don’t think the conversation was on John’s mind anymore…”  Molly jokes dryly, her voice trailing off as she looked at Sherlock and then down at the napkin where his half-finished drink sat.  And the cherry.

She looked back up to him as he reached up and pulled a perfectly knotted cherry stem from his mouth and placed it on the napkin next to the fruit. 

“I learned it in Uni.”  He said smugly, smirking at the shocked - was that arousal?- look on her face.   “At a party and some girl taught me how to do it.  I must say it helped with languages, being able to roll one’s tongue like that.”

Molly swallowed.  “Okay.  I now understand why guys find this trick…interesting.

His smirk widened.  “I believe this is the part of the conversation where you ask me what other talents I have.”

She raised an eyebrow?  “Do I?  And if I were to, let say hypothetically, ask you that question, what would your answer be?”

Sherlock reached over and plucked up another cherry, looking at her as he pulled the cherry from it’s stem. 

“I’d say, hypothetically, that I am a man of many talents but it’s much better to show than to tell.”  He popped the cherry into his mouth with a cheeky grin at her flustered expression.


	6. Why I Love Molly Hooper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 5- Feelings, emotional

The screen lightened to Greg Lestrade sitting at this desk frowning at something behind the screen.

_What am I supposed to do?_

The sound of muffled speaking came from behind the screen and Greg’s mouth twisted.

_No, you ass, why am I doing this again?_

The screen went black for a moment and when it came back on Greg had a lopsided grin on his face.

_Why I love Molly Hooper.  Not in that way,_ he hastened to add.   _From the first day I met her, Molls has always been the sweetest thing in the lab._ He moved around in his seat, getting comfortable. _She’s a rock, yeah?  Always there if you need something, quick with a smile or a bad joke or a friendly ear.  Molly Hooper could possibly be one of the last few truly good people in the planet and I swear if you hu-_

The screen went back. 

 

The camera came back on, this time showing Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen.  She was fussing at someone off screen.

_…going to get sick.  Oh. Hello.  Molly.  Right.  Well, anyone can see that Molly is just the dearest creature around.  She’s always ringing me up to make sure I don’t need anything, stopping by with goodies that she bakes, those mint biscuits you ate the last one the other day?  Those were hers.  She’s an absolute dear with Rosie too.  Loves that girl like anything._ Mrs. Hudson looks at the person behind the screen.

  _Someone could take lessons from that girl, Sh-_

The screen went to black.

 

The third time it came into focus, Mycroft’s scowl was on the screen. 

_Explain to me why I am being forced to do this again?_

The screen went black for a moment and when it came back, Mycroft wasn’t scowling but he wasn’t cheerful either.  With a roll of his eyes, he began.

_What am I supposed to say about Miss Hooper?  Yes, she’s an adequate person, as people go.  There are much worse out there.  Of course, that could work against her one day.  Fine,_ he said to an unspoken threat behind the camera. _Miss Hooper is loyal. Which is always a good trait to have.  Loyal and agreeable.  I’d say pliable, but we both that’s not true._ He focused directly onto the screen.  _Many happy returns Miss Hooper._

The screen went black.

 

The fourth time was John and Rosie.  The toddler was squealing at something behind the camera, arms outstretched and babbling.  For a moment, a stuffed giraffe appeared on the side of the screen and with a sigh, John reached for it, to give to Rosie, who promptly put it in her mouth. 

_Why I love Molly Hooper.  And yes, I’m going to use the work love, you clot.  Why I love Molly.  Well…because she’s Molly.  That’s the base of it.  Molly with her horrid clothes and her jumpers and her cats.  She’s a literal angel.  She came in here at a time when I was at my lowest and she just took over and …_

John stops for a moment, swallowing hard and burying his face in Rosie’s curls.  The toddler looks up at her father and pats him on the side of the face with her stuffed giraffe as if to comfort him.

_May-ye_    She announces and John laughs. 

“ _Yeah, Molly._ He looks back up at the screen.  _She saved me.  She saved Rosie.   She was there when I wasn’t letting anyone else in and for that I will always love her.  Harry and I…we’re, well we’re good, but Molly?  She’s the sister I could’ve had._

He winked at the screen. 

_Happy birthday Molly.  Hope you enjoy this._

The screen went black.

 

The final time it popped on, Sherlock was sitting in his chair, leaning away from the camera.  He looked into the screen and cleared his throat.

_What Molly Hooper means to me.  From the first day I saw her, I immediately saw a person I could bend to my will, that would, I thought at the time, be pliable to my wishes.  I was completely mistaken.  While Molly did help me and acquire me many a thing I asked for, she was never pliable.  Under those horrid oversized jumpers and that deviously sweet smile, she has a backbone of steel.  Molly had shoulders that can hold the world and has.  She had shouldered so many problems, kept so many secrets, loved so openly, sometimes without any hope or notion of recompense._

He leans forward in his chair, arms on his knees.

_Molly Hooper is the best thing that’s happened to all of us.  The best thing that’s happened to me.  Why do I love Molly Hooper?  Elementary, she is simply the best of all of us.    And now Molly, look to your left._

In the sitting room of 221B, where all of her friends had gathered to celebrate her birthday, Molly Hooper, who was currently sitting in the chair usually inhabited by one Sherlock Holmes, frowned but did what the Sherlock on the screen told her to. 

She’d been so focused on the screen, she hadn’t noticed Sherlock move from the kitchen where he’d been standing when she’d started watching this video.

To her left, Sherlock knelt at her side, looking up at her.

“You are the best of me Molly Hooper.  Please agree to always be the best of me for the rest of our lives.”

She sat there, frozen in shock.  From behind her, John’s voice came.

“Answer him Molls.”

She blinked. 

“Yes.  Oh my God, yes. Yes…always yes.”

Sherlock smiled and pulls a small box from his jacket pocket. 

Molly begins to cry as he slides the ring onto her finger and she leans down to kiss him. 

 

On the screen Sherlock is still sitting in his chair. 

_Happy birthday Molly Hooper_

Then the screen goes black.


End file.
